Pascale Petit

The Horse-Dress

She has made herself a horse-dress.Night and day she workedon her crochet loops and chain stitches,until the mare's eyes covered her nipples,nostrils flared over her ovaries.Horse legs dangle from her huge horse-face,a tail swishes from her tailbone.With its protection she passes through firedoors.No one can hurt her when she wears her horse,the past gallops away.She asks for a table and sits at it,the words canter over the paper.While Nurse braids her mane,her pen writes to her holy daughterand her holy son.She has crocheted their foal portraitson the cheeks of her mare-face.When her nipple-eyes see themNurse straps her down.They tie a halter around her neck.Here comes the jacket with endless arms,the burning wet sheetstwisted into ropesand the nosebag of horsepillsclamped over her muzzle.Here comes the jockeywho rides her like a raceruntil she is raw.They pass four hundred volts through her brain,her teeth rattle in their pensand bite the apple of her tongueand still she won't wear the hospital gown. Her dress is a horseboxhurtling down the motorwayat a hundred miles an hour.